


Desk Duty

by archea2



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Body Calligraphy, Desk Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade won't admit it loud and clear, but he loves to be stuck at his desk in the late hours with Sherlock breathing down his neck. Hm, yes, quite literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desk Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Started as a PWP for Fengirl88's Five Act Challenge, ended up fluffier than originally planned. Fen's list included Voyeurism, which can be seen here if you blink hard enough.
> 
> Also contains a smattering of French, smutty and subtitled (at the end).

If he could remember the word, Lestrade would think  _desecration_  and feel an extra thrill crawl up his spine. As he is – three-quarters naked, trousers and pants bunched down at his ankles, hands splayed on the cold Formica of his desk – words are no longer his division. Though the slick, silent demon behind him, forcing him to part his thighs even wider with a mere slap of his palm, seems determined to prove him wrong.

 

"If you want it, Greg, you'll have to ask for it."

 

" – ck you."

 

Sherlock's laughter is low and moist, just like the touch of his finger at Greg's hole, drawing slow, featherlight circles. "Wrong premise, Inspector. How surprising."

 

Wrong, wrong. Quite the apropos word, even if the door is locked and the hour is late, and, fuck, there's still the window to Donovan's cubbyhole of an office. Last time he checked, her lights were off. Are they now? The tantalising touches are distracting him, unless it’s the blood pounding into his head, now he’s bent so low all he can see is the shiny black bulk of the office phone. Yet there's something about someone chancing upon them that makes his throat go dry and his cock, still untouched, harden on a pulse of its own. And now Sherlock wants him to –

 

"Oh yes, Detective Inspector. Loud and clear."

 

"Jesus!" Sherlock's fingers are drumming a light tattoo along his taint. "Yes, fuck. Ah... please. Sherlock. Please, I, I. Please, fuck, now, me, fucking now, oh,  _oh_! On my – Yeah..." He can't afford to be loud, not after so many years of spreading the word of office etiquette, but he’ll be as clear as it takes for Sherlock's fingers to stroke his sac, almost tenderly, before they retrace their dance and push into him, one wet finger after the other, and Greg's babble trickles into a wet-edged moan when they recede.

 

"This is how I want you." Sherlock's voice is smoke and honey, dark, pungent honey, dripping from the edge of a knife into Greg's ear as he adjusts their bodies for the kill. "Tousled, upended and dizzy, your clothes a mess, your body mine to run and ride, ride every pulse, every breath, ride the living soul out of you..."

 

"Won't – happen." But Greg is breathless already, one slippery hand sending a batch of papers to join the flotsam on the floor. Personnel's extensive statistics for the –  _fuck_. The first hard jolt always makes it straight to his guts, a white-hot promise to leave him riven, and filled, and undone. God this one is going to make a howler of him.

 

Sherlock's next words cut smartly through the haze.

 

"I said no hands, Lestrade. Not if you want mine on you."

 

He hasn't realised he is bracing on one elbow now, hand clapped to his mouth. It's no use, nothing is any use against the bait of Sherlock’s touch, so he gives up and tries to keep it low-pitched, letting all sorts of little sounds spill over when Sherlock flicks his tongue out at his neck, the vulnerable spot at the base. He can no longer hear anything but his breath, deep-panting, and the pleas mounting under his breath,  _more, more, faster, go deeper and gimme, love,_  when – the rhythm breaks.

 

"Wha-what..." Greg wets his lips. "Sherlock, are you out to kill me?"

 

"Shhh." Sherlock wraps an arm around his chest for a brief, astounding hug. "You're going to come. But you've just said something that I – want to answer."

 

He is carrying on at a slower, smoother pace that has Greg opening and thrusting back from instinct. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sherlock’s hand steal up across the desk and close – not on his own, as he first thought, but on the one fine-tip felt pen that hasn’t rolled overboard with its peers. The thin  _pop_  of the lid coming off is enough to clue him in, seconds before the fibre tip presses against his bare shoulder.

 

"Sweat," he protests feebly, even as Sherlock’s one-handed grip on his hip tightens and the languid, constant thrusts pick up a firmer pace. Again and again he is taken to the brink, shown the plunge and primed for it, every pore alive and humming for release, only to be held and pulled back. His thighs are taut with the pain-fire. "Won’t – ah – hold."

 

" _Ne bouge pas, surtout_." Sherlock’s voice close to his neck is not that different for the switch of language, one familiar to Lestrade though the acquaintance is now wearing thin, but it does edge his lower tones with a sharp aura of sensuality, perhaps because of the extra friction produced by the French  _r_ , turning the air between them into an erogenous zone. Lestrade shivers and yields. He knows what the shift entails: an intimacy that Sherlock is only now beginning to admit, tapping into six years of instant wonder and hesitant trust (and grief, and silence, and silent forgiveness) but cannot quite speak out.

 

He tries to follow the whorls and twists of the pen across his back, but the ether-like scent of the felt and his own rush of endorphins keep derouting him into a vortex of sensations. The pen dips into a full stop in the runnel of his back, only to start meandering again. "Gimme," Lestrade repeats, eyes closed.

 

Sherlock’s hand never pauses in its course, timing the letters between his strokes, but his voice is longer in coming. "...  _et j’aime que mon sexe... se glisse... au cœuf de tes cuisses_..." The hand clasping Greg’s hip uncurls, slides forth to wrap itself around his sex, encouraging Greg to rut against its embrace. "...  _ton odeur me fait bander, ta sueur, ta confiance... tes cheveux sous mes lèvres._.." Lestrade is moaning openly, both for the words and the fast, tight caresses that cannot be told apart from the words. The pen prickles at his flesh, his spine, rousing a trail of nerves at the end of its tip as Sherlock carries on, his tones suddenly cracked and urgent. "...  _personne_   _avant toi... si fort... .je me déballe dans ton poing, dans ton ventre... maintenant, Greg, bon dieu, vite_..... Greg, fuck,  _now_!"

 

He feels, more than he hears, the felt pen drop to the ground as Sherlock’s hands grab his hips and the man pretty much seals himself onto Greg's sweating back in fast, uncoordinated strokes that make him cry out and scrabble for purchase, one hand gripping the desk edge, until all the strokes melt into one hard sinuous undulation and he knows they’re close now, so close they’re both moaning their breaths, burning, struggling for the fall.

 

Greg’s blurred thought is that it should be him telling Sherlock what he’s always kept in. How he loves Sherlock’s cock for instance, filling him to the rim, but he can no longer speak, can only drip for Sherlock as his orgasm gathers in him, the rich, full-bodied spasm that beats on and blooms out until it is ripping through the two of them, the last flicker of sensation Sherlock’s hand pressed to his mouth.

 

After a while, Greg tries to kiss the hand away and, when Sherlock doesn’t show any sign of moving on, adds a firm hint of teeth. It’s going to be hard enough stretching up, and he wants every breath he can summon. Sherlock takes the hint reluctantly, but consents to part bodies, a little gauchely as Greg turns around to appraise him.

 

Dark hair mussed wild and tangled. White shirt a sorry mess, creased out of any recognisable shape and stained black across its front. And that beautiful cock, still displayed in its evening glory as Sherlock’s hands, fumbling at his flies, are a bad case of the shivers. Greg, while fully enjoying the show, spares a twinge of regret for his own back, not only because, yeah, stretching is martyrdom right now, but because he knows that the embrace and his own sweat have irrevocably ruined Sherlock’s  _cri du cœur_ , heart crying out that it, too, is made of flesh.

 

But Sherlock is smiling. And the smile makes the scene all right, even the light in Donovan’s office, even the wreck of his desk and the lancing pain when he bends to pull up his trousers, not to mention that his office will need a hefty dose of fumigation before he lets anyone in again.

 

"You’re a rare sight, you know that?" Lestrade asks, and becomes aware at once that this is exactly what Sherlock is, has been since first glance, and will be to him as long as his all-too-human heart remains their go-between.

 

There’s a visible footprint on personnel’s extensive statistics, someone is rapping at the door, and Lestrade can sense a sore throat on the way. But nothing is of consequence, nothing but Sherlock’s incautious smile as he picks up his jacket, makes it twirl on his fist, and answers, "To quote John’s bedside philosopher – for your eyes only, Inspector. For your eyes only."

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

 

" _Ne bouge surtout pas_ " = Don't you move now.

 

"...  _et j’aime que mon sexe... se glisse... au cœur de tes cuisses_...." = and I love how my cock... will take shelter... deep inside your thighs...

 

" ...  _ton odeur me fait bander, ta sueur, ta confiance... tes cheveux sous mes lèvres_...." = you scent makes me hard, your sweat, your trust... your hair against my lips...

 

"...  _personne_   _avant toi... si fort... je me déballe dans ton poing, dans ton ventre..... maintenant, Greg, bon dieu, vite_..." = nobody before you... so hard, till I lash out in your fist, in your guts... now, Greg, fuck, quick...

 

 


End file.
